


Fourteen

by ArcadeGhostAdventurer



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, But It's An Inn, Fluff and Humor, Inn AU - Bilbo Owns An Inn, M/M, The Company - Freeform, you get it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 01:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17972036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcadeGhostAdventurer/pseuds/ArcadeGhostAdventurer
Summary: When Tharkûn left the Company, telling them to wait for him in the Shire, Thorin had expected him to come a little quicker. Definitely hadn't expected him to take a year. Nor anything that happened in that one year.Uneventful fic where Thorin waits, meets Bilbo, eats food and that's... Nice. Really.





	Fourteen

“So you whisk them,” Bombur noted, moving a finger in his palm as if writing it down, “but not to the point that they are stiffened up?” The hobbit sent him a pointed look and still managed to be slightly threatening while he moved between the tables swiftly with a huge cauldron filled up with soup in his hands. He set the cauldron behind a counter where patrons could see what was being served to decide.

“Then you mix it into you batter, and steam it until clean,” he dropped the towels he had been using as grippers, “then you’re done.” With that the hobbit went, rubbing his hands on his apron to assist a potential customer, inquiring about the carrot content of the stew on the other side of the counter. Bombur made a move to follow but Thorin signaled him to come back to the table.

“What does ‘until clean” even means? Clean until you can turn it out? Clean until a knife comes out clean? Clean until as in you run out of water?” Bombur scraped the remainders of his long gone pudding until a young hobbit came to pick up last of their empty plates. Bofur asked for more ale, and one for his brother too, please.

Thorin looked at the white imprints the heavy pot left behind on the hobbit’s hands as he went about his business like nothing happened. The first time he walked into the Hobbit Inn, late at night and covered in soot from the heavy metalwork and found… This, in front of him, he had been a bit too tired to hide his surprise.

“You’re wearing an apron,” The hobbit had looked in his eyes, mouth agape, and then had bristled.

“It’s heirloom,” and Bilbo hadn’t looked quite in Thorin’s eyes since that first exchange.

Thorin thinks he had probably offended the hobbit with his question. In his defense, he hadn’t expected it. The company had been in the Shire for a while now and it seemed like the male and female hobbits had a distinction in appearance and roles in life that, while not quite so stark, resembled that of the Men. You could still see a male hobbit gently parting dough for sweet rolls through one window and see a female hobbit behind a market stall mending shoes, but still. Seeing a male hobbit wearing an apron had been quite… Fascinating, for a Thorin so tired. Though the hobbit hadn’t skimped on service, offended or not. It was clear that Thorin had came long after the closing time. The chairs had been turned over on to the tables, the floors still glistening from the damp mop. The hobbit had set a table close to the kitchen door and warned him that no matter what he ordered at this hour, it was not going to be fresh nor warm, though he could always make sandwiches and tea, or bring ale. That the dwarves preferred, he had realized.

Fili had discovered the inn when they started to become more accustomed to Shire. Using his ability to be soft spoken when he wants, he was one of the dwarves that the hobbits first deemed acceptable to interact in things other than work matter. His golden hair and neat beard also seemed to help, as hobbits seemed to appreciate light and soft colored everything. They said that Mr. Baggins ran the place, and no matter his eccentricities, he was an honest hobbit that charged just enough for his acceptably tasty food and wouldn’t be against having them eat at his inn, and maybe even stay.

As much as the idea of a hot dish excited him too, Thorin had been against all of them going to the inn at once, never mind staying there. He had realized soon enough that as polite as hobbits were, they were wary of the dwarves. Understandably. They seemed to be a folk whom, above all, prized the stillness and the predictability of their lives. Having something or someone foreign around them constantly put them on the edge. But they were respectful and polite in their speech even when they were discomforted and they paid what they set out to pay. So Thorin could do as much to respect their space and their comfort. Also settling in the inn would be accepting that they were not leaving anytime soon. Thorin was not sure he was ready to admit that just yet.

Fili and Kili carried to them nicely packed food in tiny woven baskets. All wrapped up neatly in pocket tissues that they were to bring back, as they were very strictly told. After them Bombur went, saying he needed to taste the food without it making an entire trip through the Shire, to appreciate the work of Master Hobbit as it deserved. And his cousins went after him. And if Bifur could go without at least some hobbits fainting, the rest of them could too. It was just that, mostly, Thorin had had no time.

They had stopped in Shire, to wait for the wizard. Tharkûn had said when they were to first set out for the quest, that there was something he needed to retrieve, something other than the obvious, something they would need. And that Shire would be a good waiting point. Not as meddling as Bree while still being accommodating. So they had camped close to the village and when the wizard didn’t turn up after a few days, they went to inquire about where they could restock their food supplies if they were to run out. One hobbit they were directed to was more than ready to part with some of his own stock of dried vegetable from last summer -if they would be kind enough to help him move a number of cases of dried apricot from the den, down into the basement, please, his back didn’t carry him like it used to.

And so they did. And after that it was carrying some logs from side of one house into a barn, to keep them going wet after the veranda’s tent was blown in the wind last night, oh what a storm it was. And where did they stay in that horrible storm? In a tent you say?! Well, don’t mention the Owlstring’s that it was him telling them but, well, they maybe would be kind enough to let them stay in the barn if -oh, don’t worry about the smell, they can’t herd anymore, not since old Mr. Owlstring broke his foot, two summers ago, if they could only help them check the strainers for pine resin. The Men-Folk they hired back in fall placed them too high, you see, a considerable amount must have been collected in them so far, that would go to waste otherwise. The barn is on the other side of the hill anyway, no one would make a fuss surely.

It would have ruffled his feathers, some time ago, to be treated in such way, like a beggar of some sort, but Thorin had learned some things the hard way. Going cold, wet, hungry on the road. They weren’t above it. King or commoner didn’t matter when winter came, none of them were above the biting cold.

It had spiraled down from there, come spring; they had done the heavy work around the Shire, for Gentlehobbits who would rather someone else rake their garden to ensure the soil didn’t freeze over or carry their logs or help the farmers or housewives even. Kili had babysat. Bombur had watched over food preparations for the Yule Day celebrations.

Kili, had babysat.  
.

The company hadn’t expected to stay so long, but Tharkûn didn’t turn up and there were things to do. Always.

And now, on this bearably chilly spring evening, the entire company sat in this homely inn called the Pink Carnation and drank ale. And no plans of moving on was in sight. Thorin was a little distressed. The weather had started to turn, they had food, they could have more in a couple days if they decided to leave. Hobbits didn’t seem to think much of money, but they paid. So the company also had some gold set aside. They had gained back the strength they had lost in the harsh conditions of the Blue Mountains that they had needed to navigate as exiles. They were as ready as they could be to get back on the road. But the wizard was still nowhere to be found and The Shire had been good to them. And that was what bothered Thorin, as much as it made him felt like a hypocrite.

The Shire was good to them.

And there was still work to do, more work even, as the spring came and all the things that grew from the soil started stirring up again. People wanted plucked clean gardens, raked gardens, sown gardens, fields even, and then cleaned barns, cleaned homes, mended and cleaned roofs… When they first came to Shire, they were in no place to choose. Now it had became a routine of some sort. Work, get paid, come to the inn. The cycle of any commoner anywhere.

Thorin’s feet itched for the road they had been set to travel. His hands ached for a blade, an axe, a sword. But he could see the change in Kili’s filled cheeks, in Fili’s confident and careless stride as he went to scouting for not Orcs but berries to be foraged for a change, in Bifur’s eyes as he told stories to little hobbit children with gestures and so many tiny figures carved from softwood by Bofur between carpentering work. A good change, for the first time they set out on this road. For the first time since Erebor. Maybe this is it, said a part of him, maybe this is the end. It was all going to be for naught anyway maybe, don’t take them to their death, leave them to their newfound life here.

And the other side of him just said Erebor, Erebor, Erebor, Erebor…

-*-

“Y’need help?”

“Nah,” Bilbo stretched over the counter to pick up a stray fork, “I got it.” He rummaged around, and pulled out a tiny pot, and then another, “Do you want the last of the pudding?” he asked as he dropped it in the pile of pans and pots in front of Thorin, “There is no cream left though, and I am not whipping up any more at this hour.”

Thorin stopped for a second, his one hand still in the bean pot he had been scraping with some bread, “Thank you.”

The hobbit sputtered, “Thank me? Thank you! What was I going to do with all of those myself? Throw them away, possibly. Not that they had gone bad, of course! Which is what makes me... I mean you’re eating them now, you can tell so, but they would go bad by tomorrow surely and I can’t eat all of that myself but you can apparently,” his talk dwindled down as he took the empties into the kitchen but some were still audible, “thank me, hah, I didn’t even put out plates.”

Thorin smiled as he moved onto the pot where the vegetable dishes of the day were all combined now. The hobbit was right, all of the things that were left from the day’s cooking were only enough to put together a whole meal maybe. Thorin knew it was late when he knocked on the doors of the inn but he had been tired and thirsty. He had meant to ask for water only-- the boys knew he would be late, and so they had surely saved something to eat for him-- but the hobbit had started to scold him for asking for food at such a late hour who did he think he was, oh well, if he wanted so much then he could have anything that was left but he was absolutely not bringing out those newly washed plates and well, Thorin didn’t have much opportunity to explain that he did not actually ask for anything.

He was aware that Bilbo, a name he had learned from Bombur (he had realized, not the hobbit himself), since it became a name he swore to a lot since he started to try recreating the hobbit’s recipes, was still not quite looking him in the face. He hadn’t expected the offense he had caused when they first met to carry over for so long but apparently he had hurt the hobbit more than he thought. He didn’t and couldn’t bring it up before, both since the hobbit was surrounded in the crowd of the tavern all the time and lest he offended the hobbit more. So he thought, what better time than now?

“Master Bilbo?”

Thorin heard a splash of water and the sound of something almost crashing down caught at the last minute. Then the hobbit appeared, drying his hands on the apron that caused all this offence in the first place.

“Yes?” Bilbo retorted, maybe a little too forcefully, looking right into Thorin’s eyes Thorin realized, and saw for the first time, that the hobbit maybe was not as young as he estimated him to be. Crow’s feet had started to settle around Bilbo’s eyes for the keen eyes to see, and maybe a little bit of panic was there at the moment too. Maybe he too, was guilty of not looking. Thorin sat a little straighter.

“I wanted to apologize for my previous comments upon your predilection,” the hobbit’s eyebrows shot up, “of attire. My aim was never to displease you with such scrutiny, and I am deeply sorry for offending you.”

Bilbo’s mouth opened, and then closed. His hands came up to his waist as he squinted at Thorin, “What in the, the mighty… What are you talking about exactly?”

“W- Well. Your apron, I-”

The hobbit let out a ringing laugh like Thorin never heard before, “My apron?! Where did you even get such an idea?”

Thorin bristled at that, “You wouldn’t look me in the face!”

“Oh,” the hobbit’s laughter ceded, he waved a hand, “oh well, I was only thinking…” He sighed. Thorin waited. “I was so taken aback when I saw a group of dwarves out of all things, oh dear, I was so… It is the Took blood, I’m telling you, that puts all this madness into my head and well,” he stopped and looked at Thorin, “there is no denying my mother was a Took, through and through, that probably means naught to you but still, she would be delighted to meet a dwarf. She was always looking out for peculiar things, different things, an adventure,” he sighed, “one of those damned adventures was what took her in the end, at least she went willingly.” He sat down on one of the stools, “Maybe you and your band just… Make my mind wander in directions I hadn’t let it go in a while.”

The hobbit looked wistful. Thorin hadn’t expected such an admission as an answer to his apology. An acceptance or a dismissal, but not… This. He looked at the last pot sitting on the table, unsure if it would be impolite to carry on eating at this point or if he was to even expected to say anything.

“And the apron,” Bilbo motioned smiling slightly and unknowingly saving Thorin from finding an appropriate answer, “was my mother’s. Heirloom, you see. But I was not offended, not ever in the first place, just so you know.”

Thorin laughed, glad that the hobbit at least remembered the exchange from before and his apology hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. Bilbo, motioned to the last of the pots. Thorin pulled it close and he recognized the dish inside.

“Is this the infamous pudding Bombur was lusting after?”

“Oh! That damned dwarf!” Bilbo lifted his hands, “No offense please, but he hasn’t left my side for a whole day!”

Thorin pulled apart a piece of the dessert delicately with his fingers and popped it in his mouth, soft cake melted in his mouth like something fit for the tables of the kings, leaving a rich chocolatey taste even after the bite was long gone. Thorin pulled another piece from the cake, “It is a thing to be admired though, Master Hobbit. Now I can see why he was so enamoured with recreating it.”

Bilbo waved a dismissive hand, “It’s so easy to make, why do you think it comes out every other day? Just get ahold of some chocolate, though the vanilla one also makes a nice sponge, served with jam.” Then the hobbit’s eyes glinted with a mischievous light. “Do you want to hear the recipe? Then you can tease him with the details and,” he ran an exaggerated hand on his apron, “I think I could accept it as an appropriate apology for insulting my late mother’s beautiful apron.”

Thorin guffawed.

-*-

It wasn’t unusual to see the occasional dwarf in the Shire. The Blue Mountains were closer than it looked on the map, and once you got out of the skirts of the mountain, it was all rolling hills, Easy to trot with a pony in no time at all. And it was easier to rest close to the first edges of the Hobbiton on the way to Bree. In addition to that, Shire had a thing a mountain could not. Fresh produce. A lot of it too. Still, it could not be said that hobbits were used to dwarves in any way. It was almost like whenever they saw a dwarf, they were politely seeing their conversation through and immediately were putting the information that dwarves existed out of their minds. Still, it made Thorin feel more at ease to know that they were not the first nor the only dwarves in Shire.

There was something about the rolling fields and tall bushes of the Shire that made Thorin feel like… An intruder. In a green treasury. All things were orderly. All fields sown. All raspberry bushes dotted pink. As if cutting down one tree would break the fine balance of the secluded life going on in this tiny village.

Bilbo gave Thorin the same feeling.

The hobbit got up before dawn every damn day, putting down the stools and the chairs. Putting bread into oven. Chopping up vegetables and warming butter and pulling water and everything. Bombur had found his way into the kitchens as an unofficial kitchenaid soon after they had started staying at the inn and even with his help, to Thorin it seemed like things were just barely being held together. He had no idea how the hobbit managed to run everything all by himself until this day.

But that was the thing about hobbits, he thought, they ran around sowing fields bigger than hills and filled up pantries larger than all their rooms combined and they persevered, in a world where everything was bigger than them. Halflings, a ranger visiting the inn had called them once, “Half of nothing, thank you very much,” had responded Bilbo. Half of nothing indeed. Thorin was, even though he hadn’t named that feeling yet, scared that they were intruding into Bilbo’s balanced life, and that they would unknowingly overthrow it somehow.

They had moved into the inn after accepting that Tharkûn was either greatly delayed or greatly in trouble. And that in both cases, they could do nothing for but wait. (This, by the way, was already accepted by most of the company, Thorin mused, it was just that he had to verbally acknowledge the fact, to act on it. Which he finally had.) And if they were to wait, why not wait in comfort. So they had rolled up their bedrolls and packed up their bags and made it to the inn after thanking Mr. Owlstring profusely for letting them stay in the barn indefinitely. Thorin could tell from the old hobbit’s face that he was happy to have his barn back (or the dwarves out of it, more like), even though it had been empty and was probably going to stay that way for a long time.

In turn, Bilbo had been happy to see them, or so Thorin thought. He hadn’t been happily received in a long time now that he might have… Forgotten, kind of, how it looked on one’s face. Bilbo was surprised to have them all asking for rooms, clearly, but happy. 

“The Shire doesn’t have many travellers that stay, with Blue Mountains close and Bree more accustomed to travellers,” Bilbo said, as he handed out keys, “so the rooms haven’t been used in a while but I will get them ready in the blink of an eye. Don’t you worry now.” He had given Óin and Gloin one room; one to Dori, Nori and Ori; Bifur and Bofur stayed at one while Bombur chose to stay in the kitchen,

“Like a proper cook,” he had said, which has started then and there a long and detailed conversation between him and Bilbo about how, in Dwarven customs, a craftsman would practically live where they work, breathe what they work and be what they work,

“Explains a lot,” had said the hobbit, taking in the sheer size of the dwarf, coloring immediately after realizing he voiced that opinion. Luckily, it was more like a great praise for Bombur than something to take offense, as Bilbo probably feared.

Dwalin and Balin took another room and right beside them, Thorin was placed into one of the bigger rooms with Fili and Kili.

Which was why he was so early for breakfast and complaining all the way there too.

“They bicker like birds from their beds, I haven’t slept an hour. I’d rather stay in the shed.”

“How did you even share a barn then,” Bilbo put a plate of cheese next to the sliced tomatoes, coated liberally with rich olive oil and dried thyme and the first bread out of the oven. The dawn hadn’t broken yet and even though Thorin could have been exaggerating a tiny bit for the show, it wasn’t really that far from the truth. Fili and Kili  
bickered a lot for how tired they claimed to be. And seeing the small hobbit defend him against them was something to behold, sparking something warm in Thorin with how quietly fierce it was. Bilbo looked at him in distaste as he broke the bread with his hands,.

“I was bringing a knife for that.”

“I am leaving for Bree today,” said Thorin after swallowing his first bite.

“Where did you find a steed?”

“I didn’t.”

Bilbo squinted, “So you’re leaving on foot.”

“Yeah,” Thorin almost expected him to protest with how he looked at him, but objection never came.

Bilbo turned around and left, “Yeah, okay,” he said, leaving one very confused dwarf behind.

By the time Thorin had finished his meager breakfast, the hobbit was back with a drawstring bag that looked like it was about to explode. 

“Bombur told me you found a smithing job,” he fiddled with the strings of the bag, then put it on the table, “You surely will be making much more in Bree than here carrying logs and chicken crates and whatnot.” He pushed the bag towards Thorin.

“It’s just a day’s work, I will be back in little over a week.”

“Oh!..”

“You thought I was leaving?” Thorin was a little bit insulted by the idea that Bilbo could think that he would leave his company as easily as this, and for smithing, of all things.

“Well… For longer than a week, at least. I thought- I thought it was a permanent job. And frankly, there really isn’t much to do for a blacksmith in Shire.” He was right. For all he knew, Thorin was that. A blacksmith, a dwarf doing whatever comes his way. Thorin sized the bag.

“And you prepared this for the road, I assume.”

“Well yes,” Bilbo patted the bag, “From where else you were planning to find provisions from? The road between here and Bree is barren.”

“Still, this is too much. I will be on the road for no longer than three days until I reach Bree. And I can surely pack for journey back there.”

Bilbo waved a dismissive hand, “Oh please! It is just some flat bread, some dried meat and dried fruit. Maybe a couple sacks of roasted hazelnuts,” his eyebrows met, “I think I put some smoked cheese in there too, and green apples. One or two, it is still too early in the day for me to remember. Do try to eat those before they go bad, will you?”

“As I said, more than necessary,” Thorin was amused. He had became aware of the hobbitish eating habits since they came to the Shire, it made him- pleased, that hobbit forgot so easily that the dwarves didn’t need eleven courses a day. It made him feel like he belonged.  
.

“No amount of food is ever more than necessary. Now if you will, I have to make sure the fish Bombur has been grilling is actually being minced and tossed into the soup and not tossed into his belly,” Bilbo went to the kitchen, stopped fidgeted as he looked at Thorin from the doors, 

“Take care on the road please,” and with that, he was gone.

Thorin picked up the sack, trying to find a way to fit it into his bag with his already packed stuff. From the corner of his eye, he saw his nephews slinking into the kitchens after Bilbo with mischief in their smirks, Kili’s more prominent than Fili’s. He wanted to call for them, tell them not to bother the hobbit but in the blink of an eye, they were gone. Thorin sighed.

It was known that he was… Fond, of Bilbo. Not that anyone without an eye trained in his Thorinness could ever tell, but the ones that were close to him, Dwalin and Balin, and these two idiots, had easily picked up on his fondness. In his defense, the hobbit stuck up from the crowd since their unfortunate (in his opinion; funny, in Bilbo’s) first encounter. Since that day Thorin has learned that if it was any other hobbit receiving that incredulous comment, what they would do would not be to answer with a snarky remark and move on but faint out of shock and sheer rudeness of this dwarf, of Thorin. Bilbo was witty, when given opportunity. And oh so quietly so, going around the patrons in the inn with heavily veiled jabs at their clothing, their inconsequential worries and the way they eat.

For a dwarf who was used to telling what he thinks and knowing what he hears to be the sole truth, nitpicking Bilbo’s conversation and finding the hidden meanings in his comments was like fiddling with a well made puzzle box. Thorin thoroughly enjoyed that. And small hints like this, he thought as he took the bundle of food and got out of the inn, were what made him think that Bilbo enjoyed it too. He just hoped Fili and Kili wouldn’t take it too far as he were gone. How far was too far or what was even there, Thorin could not dare imagine.

Bree was about two days of walking away from Hobbiton. Thorin had said he would be gone for a week but he assumed it could be even shorter if the work could be actually handled in the day he arrived into town. He had gotten the news of it through some ranger, circling the Shire and the way between two towns. He was to separate some iron bars according to their level of purity. A blacksmith had received them mixed in a shipment since they were close in quality but he assumed some were mix with something that he could not really pinpoint and if he could get a dwarf to look at them, he was not going to turn away that chance. He didn’t want to make horseshoes out of something that could break or sell pots that would poison an entire household dead with lead, you see.

And Thorin could do with a little getting away from Hobbiton. More than the money or the job or anything, that was what he wanted to do. It neared a year since they came to Shire and there was no sign of Tharkûn still. Thorin was almost scared for him at this point. Scared for themselves too, that they might be waiting something that would never come. And that they would have to go back to Ered Luin, having to say that yes, they had set out to reclaim Erebor but instead did a little gardening in Shire and then decided to come back. That was not an option. That would be a humiliation beyond actually reaching the mountain and failing. He wouldn’t wish that on his companions.

But still, moving on seemed out of their reach. Spring was about to give way to summer and if Tharkûn did not show up soon, summer would become autumn and then would become winter. And being on the road in winter was not a possibility. And whatever the wizard had set out to find that was too risky to be written down. They didn’t have that. Whatever that was.

On the other side Thorin could feel Shire changing them. Making them soft. Comfortable. Too comfortable. And the worst thing was, he could see how good it was to them. A life devoid of the pains and struggles of living in an almost barren mountain that could barely pull its own weight. A life, filled with hobbit cooked meals and garden work that gives its fruit come next spring and biscuits sneaked in pockets and heaviness of picnic bundles rather than shields and axes. Still, the images of his people were burnt behind his eyelids, he saw whenever he closed his eyes. Thin children, devoid of the regular plumpness of the dwarven babes he remembered from Erebor. Hands of women not stained with paints and adorned with rings but dried and cracked from mining salt. Not the worn-with-pride marks of their crafts but the toll of a life hard earned and barely sustained.

And the worst was the burns. Any dwarf was familiar to burns. They came from forges. In the form of tiny pink specks. In the form of large, deformed flesh. All treated on time. All long healed. All worn proudly and with a tale. 

There was no treating the dragon fire though. Those burns stayed, never healed, never went away. They kept eating away at their victim long after the fire touched them, until they were too weak to hold onto life. Those burns, he could not forget. He could not forgive. A whole generation of dwarves looked at the fire like it was the greatest evil in the world, when they were to be mesmerized in the face of the dancing flames like their fathers and grandfathers. Thorin could not forgive that.

But the hurt of it, the sharp pain, it was easing away, wasn’t it?

And that was why he needed to go away for a while. He needed to clear his head from the heady feeling that got hold of his heart. He needed to remember his duty. And maybe then, he dreamed when he allowed himself, maybe when all of this was said and done, he would come back to Shire. Adorned not like a king, as in some of his other dreams, but as he were now. And he allowed himself to imagine, that he would stay.

He didn’t dare think any more into the scenario. Didn’t dare think why he wanted to stay. Where? With whom? Just that he would stay. And that would be alright.

-*-

Bree was just as he expected. A small human village, tumbling by. His work it seemed, was easier than the blacksmith had made it sound like. The moment the man had started talking Thorin could see that he was the kind to fret about every little thing. Though he didn’t turn out to be fretting about nothing, at least. Some of the bars had been mixed with copper. Scrapings, Thorin had assumed, from the melting pots that had previously been used for melting copper. It wouldn’t make a huge difference for other wares he had said to the blacksmith, but to maybe not make pots out of those. Or if he did, to glaze them, just to be sure. He helped the man divide them, melting a couple of the bars to see if there were pockets of other things in them too. All in all, it happened to be an unexciting visit but seeing a proper forge had been good to Thorin. The man used longer equipment than he was used to, which almost gave way to a couple disasters but in the end, Thorin was happy to be reminded of the fire. Good, honest fire.

And how a thing he loved so dearly still could burn just as fiercely.

-*-

Just as he predicted, Thorin was back before a week. And he was both happy and disappointed to see that nothing had changed. Disappointed because it meant no progress was done on the adventure front, but happy because...

“What do you mean it’s nothing?! It has eaten away your skin!” Bilbo reached for his bandaged hand and backed away once the bandage had been lifted by Óin who had been giving him ointments when Bilbo entered, knocking, to bring clean sheets to their beds in his shared room with his nephews, “Oh dear, that nail will fall definitely.”

Thorin looked at the burn on his thumb. Bilbo had dropped all the sheets onto one of the beds and had came to peer and fuss at Óin wrapping Thorin’s finger. To be honest, it was not nothing but he had worse injuries. Worse injuries on the battlefield, where they were sure to get infected and not hold stitches and take his life. And he had survived. Here, in Shire where everything was clean and orderly and Óin lacked nothing in supplies, there was not really any need to fret.

He said so to Bilbo, who was still wringing his hands and looked about to either scream at him of start to cry. He was met with a furious expression.

“Excuse me and right me if I’m wrong Thorin Oakenshield but we are not in a battlefield right now.”

“Your own hands are full of burn marks!”

“Yes! And they are from pots and pans and that is my job!”

“So? And this is mine!”

“All done!” Óin announced as he shoved a couple tins in Thorin’s good hand in a hurry. “Twice a day, and when it dries up, you should remove the bandages,” he all but ran to the door in an effort to get out of the room. “Not like I won’t see it again of course but,” he muttered as he closed the door behind him.

Bilbo sputtered as he resembled Bifur, more than anything, as he made meaningless gestures with his hands. Then sighed and put his face into his hands, “I understand. I do, really. And truly, forgive me if I stepped out of my- my,” he sagged, sitting down on the chair opposite of Thorin, “I just really hate to see you all banged up like this over some pot handles and farmer’s daggers or something.”

Thorin couldn’t keep in his laugh. A feeling that resembled relief and something else seeped through him. Bilbo looked at him tersely.

“It is alright, Bilbo. I can accept that it is not nothing-”

“I cannot belive I am seeing a dwarf talking reasonably, now,” cut in Bilbo.

“And yes,” Thorin kept on going, “the nail will fall. But believe me,” he said looking down on his wrapped up finger, “there are worse fires than a forge, waiting for me in the end.” He had meant to comfort the hobbit, actually. But the words just tumbled out of his mouth against his will.

Bilbo looked out of the window as he spoke, maybe a little jokingly, “Is it the adventure you’re waiting here for?”

Thorin paused, trying to weight how much to tell the hobbit, then said internally, to the hell with it, “Yes, there is a dragon we need to put out.”

Bilbo looked at him, a smile danced on his lips before he understood how serious, utterly serious Thorin had been.

“Oh dear,” Bilbo said, before fainting.

-*-

“Move! Move, you daft dwarflings!! Give him some room to breathe!”

Bilbo came to himself on the bed that he was supposed to make for Thorin with a band of dwarfs peering at him from the sides and a huge figure towering over all of them.

“Gandalf?”

“Bilbo!” The wizard smiled at him, “Wouldn’t guess in a thousand years that ever so brave Belladonna Took’s son would faint at the word of an adventure.” Which brought Bilbo back the memories of what made him faint.

“This idiot thing is going after a dragon,” he said pointing at Thorin.

Gandalf straightened his robe, “That idiot thing is Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thror, son of Thrain, the rightful King Under the Mountain and he is going after his kingdom and his well deserved riches.”

Bilbo pressed a hand to his chest, made a noise that could easily be classified as a squeak and fainted again.

-*-

When Bilbo came to himself a second time that day, Gandalf had shooed the dwarfs away for Bilbo to recover without possibly feeling scandalized. He had an ale hor himself in his hands and Bilbo had a wet rag that he was pressing to his head and was repositioning every two seconds.

“I served a king light soup! What would mother say?! This establishment had its only chance to shine in the entire time it was built upon this hill and I gave him the leftovers!”

“I am sure he didn’t mind, dear Bilbo,” he puttered around the room, “say, where did you say you put the pipeweed again?” Bilbo was looking at his wet rag and seemed to be muttering to himself about improper etiquette.

“It’s a guest room there is no-” he looked up suddenly, like a disturbed pidgeon, “Oh dear look at this room! Is this a room fitting for a king?” Then he slinked back into his chair, pressing the rag over his eyes, “And I called him an idiot!” 

Gandalf sat back down and hid his pipe back somewhere safe in his robes. He seemed like he was about to say something else, but when he spoke it was -

“So, when is supper time in this inn?”

“Oh it’s about sev- What?”

“When is supper? I came from a long way, Bilbo and it was an arduous task that I was on. And you have a whole band of dwarves that, last I saw, were worrying themselves sick about you. And frankly,” he sighed, almost unconsciously putting a hand over his chest, feeling something thorugh his robes, “some things are better discussed over full stomachs dear Bilbo. So, in that case, see to it that it’s a private supper too.”

-*-

A table was set in short time. All the dwarves helping to carry the plates and cutlery and pots of stew and soup to one of the empty rooms upstairs. Bilbo, as much as it seemed like he was running to everything in the inn all by himself himself, was a responsible owner and had kitchen hands and maids who knew when the dinner time was. Even when Bilbo himself wasn’t there to look at them threateningly.

Bilbo was frankly quite surprised that the dwarves were still able to sing and make merry when even he could see the tense line to the Gandalf’s shoulders, slowly taking his supper on the only human-ish sized chair they could find. Though good food and ale under a roof, it seemed, was enough to lift a dwarf’s spirits to the moon. Other than the wizard, only Thorin was missing from the table. Bilbo slinked out of the room the moment dwarves started throwing around actual food, knowing they wouldn’t realize his absence after this point in the evening. He found Thorin in the corridor, looking out of the window at the end. Standing. Brooding, would be the right word really. But he wasn’t about to say that. Not to a king, obviously.

Honestly, he was not sure what he was going to say either. He wanted to see Thorin, wanted to make sure they were still… Friends? Were they ever friends? Okay, at least then. He knew it was silly but he suddenly felt like he was faced with a different dwarf than the one he came to knew over the months. He sighed as he came behind Thorin. He reached out to touch the king’s shoulder. The dwarf must have been lost in thought because Thorin startled and turned abruptly to him. Which caused Bilbo to startle. And let out a little yelp. Thorin grabbed him by the shoulders,  
“Bilbo! What happened?! Are you well?”

Bilbo feelt himself get a little warm down his collar, “Yes! I was- Well you didn’t eat anything. I mean you weren’t at the table so,” he looked at fold that wouldn’t leave its place between Thorin’s eyebrows, suddenly struck with a little moment of understanding, “Oh…” His shoulders dropped, “There is something bothering you other than this adventure business, I can see that.” He wrung his hands as Thorin’s left his shoulders and he inclined his head as a question. Bilbo shrugged, smiling softly as his hands wanted to reach to touch the king’s brow, make that fold go away. He resolutely kept them at his sides, “Well, you didn’t get such a look even in the face of facing a dragon.”

Thorin sighed, pinching his nose. He turned back to the window with unseeing eyes, “We’re thirteen Bilbo.”

He did not quite understand, “Oh well- And?”

“Thirteen is… Doomed. For us, it’s a number as unlucky as a number could get. This quest will be ill-fated from the start if we set foot out of the door with thirteen,” he sighed once more, “Tharkûn, Gandalf, as you said was supposed to find a fourteenth to our company. And as far as I can see he came alone. And now that he is here, the others will want to leave, rightfully. At this point, I cannot find a way out of this.”

“Well, you won’t go any further thinking on an empty stomach,” he reached for Thorin’s arm, stilling mid-movement. Had he really touched a king so casually? Before? And Thorin had not said anything. But maybe he wanted to hide, back then. And now that he knew, now that Bilbo knew, he would expect to be treated as such. Did the others treat Thorin as such? He knew Fili and Kili were his nephews and Dwalin was close to Thorin. And Balin, obviously but then again he was older. And the others… Bilbo hesitated.

Oh dear! Fili and Kili were royalty! And he had grilled them on more than one occasion like small pie-thieving hobbitlings!!

Thorin, seemingly unaware of his revelations and inner turmoil, turned to Bilbo and put his hand on his shoulder. A small resigned smile appeared on his lips, “You’re right and sensible as always, Master Hobbit. And at least with you we can be fourteen whilst we hear, hopefully good news from Tharkûn and decide how to proceed.”

Oh. Oh. Bilbo’s brain blanked for one second while his stomach did a flip. He blurted without thinking, “Oh Valar, I am so sorry for serving you light soup.”

Thorin stopped, eyebrows creasing, “What is a light soup?”

“What is?! Oh well, some soups are thickened with toast, you see, and for light soup, well, you strain it out so that you can use the remaining bread for other dishes and one would never serve such a soup for dignified company. Oh dear, you take out the bread so that you can- It’s almost thrifty! Oh Valar! And I served it to a king!”

Bilbo’s hysteric babbling was cut by Thorin’s booming laugh, He turned to the hobbit, remainders of the laugh still brightening his face. “Bilbo, do you think we’re to face a dragon because we were living like kings in the halls of the Blue Mountains? Eating the finest and making merry with fine wine and silverware?” Bilbo’s shoulders dropped. “We are not even Ered Luin’s dwarves. Where once we were a great kingdom, here we are refugees, remainders of whatever that escaped the dragon fire decades ago. Why do you think we were sowing fields and carrying logs for? We had nothing Bilbo. We have nothing. Pushed around like a leaf in the wind. And you,” he put his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders for the second time that evening, but much softer than before, almost caresing. Bilbo felt a shiver go down his spine. “You fed us, no different than you own people. Gave us room when other folk still hesitated to give us work. As if we were just another band of patrons. The hospitality we didn’t see from our own kind in Ered Luin, we saw under the hand of one single hobbit. If there has ever been a mishap, it is that we did not pay you enough respect for it.”

“But-” Bilbo stammered, flustered, “You are patrons. I mean not any other patrons, obviously but-”

“We should join other at the table. And listen to the wizard’s news. And tomorrow, we will still have a moment to settle who is more in debt, Master Hobbit.” And with that Thorin led them both towards to room where the dwarves were still singing and drinking and making merry. Dragging one stupefied hobbit behind him.

-*-

The entire night was quite hazy for Thorin. He did not know if it was from the throbbing pain in his burnt hand (he has supposed to apply some more salve onto it ions ago but it kind of went, forgotten, in the face of all of this), from how little he ate all evening or from the simple, primal fear he felt when Tharkûn suggested that Bilbo be the fourteenth to their company. After that the whole thing was screams, accusations and swears flying everywhere.

He had meant, from the beginning, to take him, Bilbo Baggins, as a burglar. Small, soft Bilbo with his mother’s apron around his waist, with his well-tended garden of flowers and vegetables, his orderly inn and his early mornings and his busy afternoons and his quiet evenings. Thorin was fully, aggressively against it. He would take being doomed from beginning to the end, rather than dragging Bilbo into it. 

Tharkûn had sensible arguments. Bilbo was quiet on his feet. The dragon did not know what a hobbit was. Bilbo was the son of an adventurer. (An adventurer who had died on an adventure, Thorin had exploded. The wizard had looked furious. Bilbo had looked at him like that was not his business, no matter what.) And he was going to be there too, after all. 

Fili and Kili were for it, excited by the prospect of hobbitish cooking on the way and teaching him how to use a sword, (and a bow, had piqued Kili, pulling his out of Mahal know where, swinging it in front of Bilbo.) Dori and Nori had said if Ori could, if he was going to, why not. And the worst is, Balin, Balin looked at him and Thorin knew that it was a plausible argument that the wizard was making but he didn’t dare say it to Thorin. Dwalin had found him later and told him they could protect Bilbo. If it meant that their home would be recovered, if it meant they were not that damned number thirteen. They would find a way.

Thorin was against it. And that was it.

Whole night that the argument went back and forth, Bilbo sat in a corner, with a tea in his hand that went cold, undrunk. Thorin could see him thinking. He didn’t want him to think. Not even entertain the idea slightly.

Dawn came and went without a conclusion. Which, Thorin knew, meant that Bilbo was not coming. Somehow he felt that the decision did not bring him any comfort. Something felt missing in his chest. Still, he refrained from voicing anything but what he had been repeating all night. The ponies were packed. The rations were divided. Tents and bedrolls all mended and put neatly in their waxed cotton bags were tied to saddles. It was time to go. Thirteen be damned. Bilbo was not coming.

“Maybe the next time I will visit the Shire like a real king,” said Thorin as he took the little bag of elevensies Bilbo had insisted on preparing from him. He had been preparing things all morning, quietly puttering around the dwarves that were also, for once, quiet.

“Yeah, you’ll come over the hill on a solid gold palanquin with forty dwarves carrying it. I will even put out a solid gold chamber pot for you.”

Thorin smiled, but he knew there were no amusement in neither of their eyes. Bilbo looked wan, his eyes distant.

“Wilderness is no place for a hobbit.”

“I know.”

“There will be orcs, bandits and who knows what.”

“I know.”

“I would never take you away from your home.”

“I know.”

“I will be back Bilbo.”

At that, Bilbo smiled, his eyes damp, “Oh we’ll see about that in time, won’t we.”

Thorin looked at him. For a second many different futures passed from his mind. Being attacked by orcs on the way. The riches of Erebor surrounding him. Going hungry, growing cold and falling to the forces of nature before even making it half way there. Falling on a battlefield somewhere. Dragon fire. Becoming a king. Coming back to Shire to see the happiness in the eyes of the hobbit. The sickness that took his grandfather taking him. Being everything he feared being. Not being anything.

Not leaving the Shire, not leaving for anything and living the simple life of a blacksmith or a farm hand or a…

Erebor.

He heard Balin calling for him. It was time to leave. When he turned around, he saw the tall figure of Tharkûn –Gandalf, Bilbo called him. Treated him as not a great wizard that has lived too many years and has seen too many things with powerful magic and unimaginable power but simply a family friend. He felt anger raise in him. The wizard said he cared deeply for his friend Bilbo, then why did he even think it would be suitable to-

He felt a soft thing touching his good hand. He came to himself, anger ebbing, realizing it was Bilbo, looking down at their hands held together.

“Do take care, will you.”

Possessed for a moment by the image, Thorin pulled their clasped hands up and pressed a long, hard kiss onto hobbit’s soft hand, “I promise.” He turned, leaving the shell-shocked hobbit behind him, to join his company. He tried to put the Shire out of his mind, and everything Shire brought him. He was to face whatever madness was awaiting them on their doomed journey. And now, he was to make it out of it alive as well. What was a possibility, was not even a question anymore. He was going to come back.

-*-

Thorin pressed a hand over left side of his chest, where a monogrammed handkerchief was hidden as they made their way over the hill that marked the end of the Shire and into the woods. He couldn’t shake that emptiness that took hold in his chest back in the inn. They would find a way, he thought. Despite their argument and his displeasure, Tharkûn was a wise wizard. And he was travelling with them. They all were in much better health than they were when they first left Ered Luin. They had full packs of rations. Gold, if they were to purchase a thing. Tended weapons, if they had to engage in combat. They would make do if-

“Wait!”

Thorin was the first to turn back, shocked, at the scream coming from behind them, to see a curly, straw blond head poke above the top of the hill.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Tharkûn said, wizard’s voice was fond as he called for a halt. As if he knew, from the start, that this would be the case. That he would come. Wouldn’t be able to stay back.

“Bilbo-“

“Baggins!!” completed the wizard, voice filled with warmth.

“This just-“ Bilbo panted, stopping a little further from them, hands on his knees doubled over, “ goes to show, that I am more Took than Baggins,” his chest heaved as he stood up and started walking towards them. “Or well, just enough Took to be a proper fool.” He reached the company, and promptly pointed a finger at Thorin. “And you!” Bilbo shouted, wagging the fnger at him, “You don’t do something like that and just! Turn around and leave and expect me to not to-“

“What did he do?” asked Kili, a mischievous glint in his eyes, bending sideways from his pony trying to see both Thorin and Bilbo.

“Oh he knows well what he did alright.”

“You were supposed to stay behind,” said Thorin, though he could only muster up a tiny little bit of indignancy. 

“Well,” Bilbo fixed the straps of his pack, “I, myself, cannot remember ever saying such a thing. Now, shall we?”

And if Thorin was secretly happy to have him beside and bone chillingly scared at the same time, he could only hope that Tharkûn would keep his word. That he would be able to keep his word. That this fourteen would bring more luck than wilderness and on top of that, a dragon could ever hurt a small hobbit.

-*-

Bilbo Baggins returned to Shire with a chest full of treasure and gold only to find his cousins fighting over the ownership of his beautiful, orderly, profitable inn; only to see him alive and well and at their feet and promptly faint. One half of the four, at least. The other half, that consisted of newly wed Otho and Primula, were overjoyed to see him alive and well and at their feet. Because it meant that the fight over the inn was over. And frankly, they knew nothing of how to run an establisment. And all this fighting over things were leaving Primula more tired than she should ever be on her first trimester. By the way, had Bilbo had the time to hear about the news? They were expecting!

Bilbo congratulated the couple and sent them on their way with mutual promises of tea, as soon as convenient. He went through the threshold and for one second, it was like he never left. He took a moment to feel righteously proud over his selection of kitchen aids and maids and also his decision to leave his key ring to Hamfast Gamgee for safe keeping. The big hot plates were out behind the counter, filled with delicious stews and soups. The tables were filled just enough for the time of the day and everyone had that kind of quiet that Bilbo came to recognize and appreciate, the kind where the food was just that good that you had to take another bite and the talk could just wait. On top of all that, not a potted plant was out of place. Brilliant. He sighed. Now to play the waiting game.

So he settled into his old routine. Made his bread in the morning, put out stew in the afternoon and wiped the tables at night. He tended to his garden, took walks into the weekly market. And waited. And no one could tell that he was any different. Other than how he had disappeared for a year or so, that was going to be the talk of the Shire for a long time but still, Bilbo was a hobbit and a hobbit could never forget their hobbit ways. Not even in the aftermath of facing a dragon, apparently. If, of course, if their eyes were keen enough to see him looking over the hill, to the road that connected Shire to the wilderness at any given chance; or the thin, silver ring that adorned the fourth finger of his left hand; or the braid, hidden behind one ear, with a dark sapphire hanging at the end of it, they did not talk about it.

It seemed so unnatural to him, at first, that the Middle-Earth could shake so violently on one side, and the other side could carry on with no knowledge of it. Having no idea of the lives lost, the blod shed, the minds broken, the sacrifices made… He balked at the idea of not knowing, not wanting to know. The fear grabbed his heart, cold inside his chest, thinking about how close he had been to not going, to not knowing Thorin like he does now, not knowing any of them and any of the things they lived through together. He tried to soothe himself with the knowledge he indeed left, and saw, and learned.

Seasons turned. He could not see the fog of autumn and not relive the Mirkwood all over again. If he stocked a bit too much for the winter, no one said a thing. He could not see the snow, the rain and not treat the seldom ranger eating at the inn a little bit more softly. If he cut them a bigger piece of the pudding, well, it was his pudding and he’d do whatever he wanted with it.

He knew a dwarven messenger had been sent to the Blue Mountains. Some of the road, they had travelled together but they were seperated when he stopped to indulge in Lord Elrond’s hospitality once more. And the Lord wanted to hear the news of the battle from the first mouth. So he knew the messenger should have reached the mountains before he could reach the Shire. Somehow, he did not see that many dwarven caravans leaving that way. Or if they did leave, they did not take the Shire road. Then again, he mused, the company had not come here in the first place because it was on their route. He had came here because Gandalf had told them to.

Some days he felt lonely, even when surrounded with all kinds of crowds. At the inn, at the market… Some days he woke up in the middle of the night, so sure that he had heard something, creeping. On those nights, he wished he wasn’t so all by himself. Some days he woke up, morning light shining onto his bed, and felt like he never went anywhere and all of it was just a dream. Only on those days, he looked at the chest. Not the one holding all the gold and jewelry, but the velvet lined one that held Sting and the mithril shirt. 

The ring, he had hidden. And had not looked at ever again.

Bilbo’s wait was over, one early morning at that sweet place between sleep and wakefulness.

“Bilbo.”

Calloused, cold hands grabbing his. Cold lips touching his forehead. Heavy curls like cool wool, with tiny specs of ice touching his cheeks. The beads. Smell of outside and dust of the road. He was dreaming again surely.

“Thorin?”

If Bilbo was not up by the time he was to knead bread, he had good kitchen aids that knew when to do what. Even when Bilbo was not there to look at them menacingly.

They also knew to let Thorin up and not to disturb them so… They either neede a stern talking to about gossip or a raise. Looking at his breakfast in bed, at noon, Bilbo decided they definitely needed a raise.

“I both expected you to come earlier and not so soon, honestly.”

“I could not wait any longer. But Oin did not see me fit enough to travel until two months ago,” Thorin dug into his porridge. 

“Two months! You made it here in two months.”

“The road through Dale is clear now. And I travelled with Kili and the Elven captain until the end of Mirkwood,” he took another spoonful of porridge, “You’d be surprised how quick you can cross miles, when you don’t have orcs at your heels or fall into goblin kingdoms.”

Bilbo moved the last dregs of his porridge around in his bowl. “So this is it. All that you set out for,” he sighed, “Thorin, are you really sure? Not that I don’t want you here but-“

Thorin took Bilbo’s hands in his. “Bilbo. An entire kingdom of dwarves know me dead. Kili is out there shooting arrows with a disowned Elf maiden. Fili has disowned his duties, for returning Ered Luin, to his mother. Dain is ruling the Kingdom Under the Mountain, maybe much better than I ever could. I,” he pressed a kiss to each of hobbit’s hands, “after all that we’ve been through, I think I am sure. I think I am quite sure, my future has never been in ruling. It is, maybe, in mending pot handles and rakes and waking up beside you until the end.”

Bilbo smiled at him, quietly he said, “It just feels so, so selfish sometimes.”

“Maybe it is,” said Thorin, then he rubbed Bilbo’s hands in his, “But then again, I have lived all my life for others amralime. Maybe for once, I would like to be selfish.”

Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, wet and full of happiness, “Well then Master Dwarf, it’s best that we do not be late for dinner preparations. There are carrots and onions to be pulled,” he cleaned his throat and mock sighed, “Life of a commoner is hard after all.”

-*-

Thorin looked at Bilbo through the kitchen window, carefully folding and rolling out pastry, which seemed to be made out of way too many layers for anyone to count. He wiped his hands on the gardener’s apron he wore over his tunic, one of its three big pockets filled to brim with carrots. He was to bring them in in secret. Bilbo was planning on carving out small carrots out of them, baby carrots he said, which turned out to be the only way his cousin’s tiny pebble of a son would ever put a carrot in his mouth. 

His back cracked as he streched. The long healed scar on his side was aching duly. It was going to rain, he supposed. Or he had just stood outside too long. Either was possible. 

He made his way to the back door of the inn, connecting the garden to the kitchens directly. Carefully put his hand over the carrot filled pocket, to retain their secrecy as he pushed the door open. For one last time, he turned and looked back at the rolling hills of the Shire. The sun was setting. A small group of sheeps were coming through the dirt road, slowly trotting behind a shepherd. One lonely chicken was sitting in an empty crate by the garden gates, poofed up and ready to sleep.

His side gave a particularly strong throb, urging him in. Life of a commoner was hard indeed. Still, Thorin mused as he listened to Bilbo giving directions about this and that from the kitchen, if only more could see the importance of having a simple roof, a good, honest fire, and carrots to pull, the world would be a better place after all.

**Author's Note:**

> A very nice friend of mine planted the idea of Bilbo owning a place into my mind. A year or so ago. Honestly K, you deserve better. Or friends who write faster at least.
> 
> So... I have my own headcanon where Yavanna is displeased with one of her children leaving the Middle-Earth so soon with such a heavy heart (Frodo. Ahem.), and Mahal thinks he had been too harsh on the descendant of Durin after the line's untimely end so they devise a plan and recreate everything. In another universe, Thorin helps Bilbo raise Frodo, in a way, making him much more ready for an entire year of trying to stay alive. And such... So this is kind of like a part of that in my mind. Also took me a year to write because I cannot write apparently.
> 
> Unbeta-ed, so if there is anything horrible, it's mine. I hope you guys enjoyed it. Bye!


End file.
